Knock on Wood
by thebondgirl
Summary: No way could his luck be that bad…


**A/N**: Tony my boy, you are just far too much fun to pick on :)

So, real-life has dealt me a few sucker punches this last year, but my head's starting to straighten out again, so back to writing I go. Anyways, what follows is a semi-case-oriented plot, but spent mostly in the thick of trouble, with the details of said case slipped in, in-between – and as always, whumpage shall ensue. Heh, good times.

This'll be another multi-chapter feature, so buckle in… this could get interesting :P – will update as often as I can, in between uni classes (wish I could remember why I thought taking summer courses on top of fall and winter ones was a good idea). Hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimer:** Internet research for the location of a story obviously has a notable margin for error – so, apologies if someone spots issues with some of the specifics, I'll do my best to be as accurate as possible. Although of course, some liberties may be taken on purpose. So ya know.

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**Knock on Wood**

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_Shit, shit shitshitshit…_

He crashed through the undergrowth at full speed, ploughing through breakable and not-so-breakable vegetation with his body acting as the plough and with nothing to shield it other than his shirt and pants, and his half-raised arms. And his boots. Thank God he still had his boots – outside of adrenaline, he knew that that was the only reason he was still going right now; all manner of rocks and sharp debris covered the forest floor like landmines that certainly would've torn his feet to shreds if they didn't have water-proofed, reinforced industrial rubber soles to contend with.

And he _had_ to keep going, as far and as fast as he could. A voice in the back of his mind told him that taking off in the middle of the night like a bat out of hell into wilderness he only vaguely knew from glances at their map that morning was the very definition of a bad idea. But the front of his mind, the part that had steered him away from the road in the first place, reminded the back part that a pickup truck full of armed men had driven to that house specifically to "deal with him", and they had come in on the only road there was. This meant that him sticking to the road surpassed 'bad idea', and ventured into the territory of suicidal. In short, this was the lesser bad of two very bad ideas, and theoretically the least likely of the two to get him killed. Even if he couldn't see a damn thing, and his head was splitting itself in two from where that old hag had hit him with a damn rolling pin, of all things. McGee and Ziva would never let him live that one down.

It felt like a baseball bat hit him now when his arms collided with the trunk-connected end of a thick, low-hanging branch, which the near pitch-black of the cloudy night had hidden from his squinting eyes. The impact jarred him backwards and he ended up flat on his back on the cold, damp ground, breath stolen, both of his arms hurting in a way that he knew meant he really didn't want to look at them just then. Ignorance was bliss, for the moment, even if he could imagine quite clearly the patches of skin he'd just lost to the branch's bark, thanks to Mrs. Thatcher having pushed up the sleeves of his sweater when she'd duct-taped him to that chair.

When he could breathe again and the temptation to scream out a swear had lessened somewhat, he flexed his right hand experimentally. Felt okay… and then he moved the left.

_OUCH._

Sweat broke out along his forehead and he could hear his teeth grinding themselves down to powder when he locked his jaw shut to demote the yell to a harsh groan and keep himself from loudly alerting any following to his position. Although, if he was really worried about stealth, he probably shouldn't have trampled through here to this point like a stampeding bull. Well. No time like the present to start channeling some common sense. He breathed deeply through his nose until the stab of pain that seemed to envelope his arm calmed down to a more manageable throb which radiated from his wrist, all the while trying to keep his hearing tuned to his surroundings to listen for the pursuit that couldn't be far behind.

A long time passed with him just lying where he was, and finally he realized that they must not have noticed right away that he'd escaped, a miracle which might've bought him extra crucial minutes… provided he got up off his ass right the hell _now_. With a silent three-count, Tony groaned his way into a sitting position to take stock of himself: cold, wet, a rolling-pin-induced head wound that may or may not still be bleeding, and what felt like a broken wrist (_nice one, idiot_), but with two working legs and at least a small head start on the bad guys. His jacket and shoulder holster were missing, as was his ankle holster, but a quick check showed that the older woman had been in enough of a rush that she hadn't searched him thoroughly enough to get the cell phone out of his sweater pocket, or the knife from his belt.

The knife he placed on the ground next to him while he checked his phone's battery. Only a quarter charge left. As he stared at the screen, several things occurred to him at once, one moving into the next in a grim stream: he couldn't go back to Molas Lake where the Thatcher house was, and couldn't go back to the highway that led from there to where his team was staying in Ouray; he also couldn't stay where he was, because as soon as they noticed he was gone from that house the Thatcher brothers would sure as hell come looking for him, all of whom were hunter-trackers, one of whom was a purportedly murderous Marine… which meant he had to boot it back to Ouray on foot, roughly a twenty-three mile hike, give or take a mile, and a hike that normally would take probably just under ten hours, which he would now have to undertake with injuries, without supplies or protection from the early-spring cold, and without the guarantee that he would even be going in the right direction.

Right.

He was in some serious trouble, here.

Taking a deep breath to quash the beginnings of panic, Tony did his best to ignore his pounding head and shift his mind away from his growing list of concerns; the only way he would get anywhere was if he focused on what needed to be done, and whatever was in the way of doing it, and tackled it step by step.

He needed to get moving again, so first he had to take care of his injuries – he couldn't do anything about what definitely felt like a concussion, and his _very_ skinned arms, while painful, weren't enough to warrant concern at the moment, but his wrist needed to be immobilized. Okay, for a splint… a solid stick, like that one on the ground by his leg. Good. Alright, to tie it… a scrap of material – he needed his sweater for what little insulation it could give, but the T-shirt under it would do. He pushed up his sweater and dipped his head forward as he pulled the edge of his T-shirt up, snagging it in his teeth. Using his knife, he started the cut in the material, then he dropped the knife and used his good hand to tear a strip off. He placed the strip on the ground and lay the stick on top of it, then rested his arm with its already swollen wrist on the length of the stick. Using his teeth and his good hand, he secured the splint as tightly as he could either manage or stand; he was shaking by the time he'd finished, and swallowing the bile at the back of his throat, hurrying his mind along to keep himself from passing out.

He needed to get moving, he knew that… but what about his team? Gibbs had been out with another search team in the mountains around Ouray with Ziva, last he'd checked. McGee, who'd boarded their flight there feeling queasy, had ended the afternoon throwing up everything he'd eaten since the day before, so when Gibbs had phoned in orders for them to do a second interview with their suspect's mother Tony had planted the kid back in his chair in their improvised war room and insisted that he could handle the routine follow-up on his own. Therein lay his fatal mistake, especially considering how the rest of the day had gone up until then, not to mention the standard protocol for interviews, which was standard for a reason – he should have known better. Was he really surprised this had all gone to hell?

Regardless, he'd left the hotel on his own roughly two hours ago according to his watch, and the interview along with the forty minute drive there and back meant he should've been back to the hotel somewhere around the two hour mark. At best, this meant that if McGee was lucid enough to notice, he'd realize Tony was overdue and try calling Tony, then Gibbs. At worst, McGee was too out of it to think to check the time, and the earliest Gibbs would be aware he was missing was about an hour from then, when he got back from wrapping up the search for the day. Unless Tony were to use up a part of his precious quarter-charge on his phone, and call Gibbs while he was still in range of the cell tower in Molas Lake Park.

He'd already hit the speed-dial for Gibbs' number before he finished the thought, and he closed his eyes and prayed for the other line to pick up. It rang once… and went to voice mail. Though the bottom dropped out of his stomach, Tony focused then on what needed to be relayed, and on doing it as quickly as possible, keenly aware once again of the miles that lay ahead of him and the importance of every minute that he kept his head start on the Thatchers.

"Boss, it's me – I'm in trouble. Went alone to follow up with Mrs. Thatcher – she got the drop on me, then called her sons in to do the rest. I just got out of there, made it to the woods. They'll be coming – our Marine's with them, I think. I'm going to try to make it back to Ouray, but I have to stay off the highway. Phone battery's running low, I'm turning it off to save power. I'll call again if – when – I get as far as Silverton. Guess... guess that's it."

As soon as he hung up he turned the phone off and stuck it in his pant pocket and levered himself back up to his feet. He hissed as he pushed his right sleeve down over his aching arm, taking extra care in maneuvering the left one over the rough splint, and he put the knife back in his belt. Reorienting himself with his surroundings took more brain power than his throbbing skull agreed with, but he gradually managed to recall a rough image of their map of the south-eastern Colorado mountain ranges, and decided that in running away from the house in the direction he'd taken, he'd gone East, which meant if he wanted to hit Silverton and still put enough distance between himself and the highway, he'd have to go north-east and further up the slopes of the mountains. He realized that his best bet was to run through the night when they would have the hardest time following his tracks, just like he knew that doing so would likely mean more broken bones, and that's if he was lucky enough to not run right over a drop-off in the dark.

Lucky enough. Tony shook his head at the thought (gently, in deference to the concussion) and started off.

After a day like today, if he was honestly relying on luck to pull him through this one, he really was screwed.


End file.
